


Shattering the Peace

by Charmsilver



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Cryogenics, Dodgy science, Fake New York Geography, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-09-08 17:48:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8855032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charmsilver/pseuds/Charmsilver
Summary: A minute passes, and then Bucky’s eyes slide open, blinking in the daylight. “Steve?” he chokes, and his arm reaches up again to press against Steve’s neck, fingers slightly cold from the cryo, but warming up fast. Steve smiles at him softly. “Hey, you ok?”“Uhh,” Bucky licks his dry lips. “What the hell happened?”





	

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another recovery fic that nobody needs. Except skip the recovery parts because I got lazy. It's mainly just cuddles, snuggles, and variations thereof. Enjoy!

_“You sure about this?”_

_“I can’t trust my own mind. So until they figure out how to get this stuff outta my head, I think going back under is the best thing – for everybody.”_

_“You know if they find out he’s here… they’ll come for him.”_

***

Steve can’t say he’s surprised; he had, after all, predicted this. Punching his way through a wall of armed lackeys, Steve reflects on the words he’d said to T’Challa three months ago:

_If they find out he’s here… they’ll come for him._

Well, the king of Wakanda had done everything he could to keep Bucky safe, to hide the location of the world’s most powerful weapon, also known as Steve’s best friend. He had all the right measures in place, all the security protocols and stealth technology. But sometimes the bad guys just had a way of getting around all that, as if Bucky had never meant to be safe, as if there had been no hope in the first place.

Of course, Steve doesn’t really believe that. Or, he doesn’t think he does. The world’s changed a lot since 1944. Or it hasn’t, and that’s the problem.

He socks a hostile shooter in the jaw and stops that train of thought in its tracks. In his ear, the com crackles ominously and Natasha’s voice filters through the static.

“Central security in sight,” she says, and then there’s the sound of light scuffling, the soft hiss of Natasha’s breath as she takes down an enemy. “These idiots never learn.”

“Grab all the intel you can,” Steve orders as he bashes another hostile with the rim of his shield.

But Natasha curses breathlessly into the com and says, “Steve, we’ve got a problem.”

“What is it?” Steve says sharply. He ducks through a nearby door and into a stairwell, which he descends three steps at a time.

“This place is rigged to blow.” Her voice is low, terse, like it is when she’s frightened but unwilling to show it. “Nine minutes and this place goes up in smoke.”

“Can you stop it?”

There’s a pause, the sound of keys clicking, then Natasha’s voice again. “No. Not without the proper authority, and whoever was running this place is long gone.”

Steve doesn’t answer right away; at the bottom of the stairwell is a door, which he thrusts himself through forcibly, causing the metal to groan in protest. The room beyond is cavernous, but nearly empty save for a semi-circular computer setup – and one, slightly grimy, but blessedly intact, cryopod.

An armed woman flings herself in Steve’s path and aims her gun a split second too late; Steve blocks with his shield, bracing himself as bullets ricochet in every direction. Swiftly he walks sideways towards the shooter and knocks her flat onto her back. He steps on her wrist and kicks the gun to the other end of the room.

“Get out of here!” Steve yells into the com. “T’Challa, we need urgent evac. Now. Get Nat and go.”

“I’m not leaving without you, Steve,” Natasha says sternly.

“I said GO!” Steve jogs towards the machines in the middle of the room, heart beating wildly.

“Sorry, Steve,” Natasha continues, “but America will never forgive me if I let you sacrifice yourself again.”

Steve doesn’t answer; he approaches the pod and notes the various cords leading from it to the computers nearby – they must be its power source. Panting, Steve looks into the frosted glass of the pod, heart in his throat.

There, mercifully, is Bucky. His face pale and serene as he sleeps in peace, unaware of the chaos around him.

“Bucky,” Steve breathes in relief. He presses his hand to the window for a split second, allows some tension to leak from his shoulders.

He looks around.

There’s just one problem.

“Nat,” he says, “how long have I got?”

“Six minutes, forty seconds.”

“I’ve located Bucky. He’s still in the pod.” Steve tries to keep his breathing under control. “I need to wake him up.”

“Shit.” Natasha swears loudly. “You can’t – Steve, the shock will kill him if he wakes up too fast.”

“I haven’t got a choice.” He casts around him for an idea, any way he can get Bucky out of there safely in the pod, but there’s no way. Either Steve wakes him up now, or he severs the connection between the pod and the power source, and Bucky wakes up anyway. “T’Challa – is there an emergency release on the cryopod?”

T’Challa responds quickly. “Yes, but Natasha’s right – your friend will die from the shock.”

Steve looks at Bucky’s face again, his gut constricting with the guilt of what he has to do.

“Bucky’s got the serum,” he says, “if anyone can survive it, it’s him. How do I open the pod?”

There’s a brief silence, then, “on the left, there’s a pinpad. Enter these numbers: five-eight-three-four and it will open.”

“Five minutes, Cap,” Natasha says in his ear. Steve ignores her and focuses on punching in the numbers.

At first, nothing happens, and Steve feels panic rise in his throat, but then the doors makes a hissing noise and they slide open slowly, issuing clouds of billowing white vapour.

Bucky’s entire body is revealed, and Steve just manages to catch him as he falls, stiffly, against Steve’s chest.

“Hey,” says Steve, searching for Bucky’s pulse in his neck. “I’ve got you.” He presses his fingers firmly below Bucky’s jaw and sighs with relief when he feels slow, steady heartbeat.

At that moment Natasha bursts into the room. “Three minutes,” she says, moving to help Steve with Bucky.

“It’s fine,” Steve says, and he hoists Bucky into his arms, Bucky’s head catching on his shoulder. “I thought I told you to get out of here.”

“Yeah, well,” Natasha shrugs and leads the way out the door and up the stairs at a run. “Someone had to make sure you got out of here alive.”

They sprint up the stairs, emerging on the top floor with one minute before detonation. Against his chest, Bucky’s body is beginning to go limp and he convulses with choking gasps.

“Stay with me,” Steve implores, tightening his hold. Bucky’s mouth contorts into a grimace and he seems to scream silently, his remaining arm reaching up to grip Steve’s shoulder in a vice-like hold.

Thirty seconds out from the explosion they burst into the open air and run like hell to the cover of the trees. There’s a rumble like thunder, followed by a deafening roar, and then Steve is knocked off his feet as the underground facility explodes, sending shockwaves through the earth beneath them.

Instinctively, Steve clutches Bucky to his chest and rolls, protecting him from the impact. Steve’s back hits the ground painfully and he lies still for a moment, dazed.

“You ok?” asks Natasha, who had managed to land in a crouch on her feet.

“Yeah,” Steve pants, looking down at Bucky.

He hears Natasha yelling for evac, but Steve’s focus is on his friend, whose body is shaking violently now.

“Bucky,” he tries, “c’mon, stay with me.”

Bucky’s grip on Steve tightens even more, digging his thumb painfully into Steve’s collarbone. He scrunches up his eyes, then opens them suddenly, though they’re unseeing and white with terror. He’s breathing impossibly fast now, babbling in a language Steve doesn’t understand – Russian, he realises.

“Nat,” Steve says. “what’s he saying?”

She listens intently, her brow furrowed slightly. “He’s asking you not to hurt him. He’s pleading. He says he’s sorry, and that he’s –“ she pauses, eyes slightly wide.

“What? Natasha!”

“He says he’s ‘ready to comply’.”

Steve blinks and looks down at Bucky in sudden understanding. “They’ve done this to him before,” he murmurs, “HYDRA. To punish him.”

Natasha looks scared. “Talk to him Steve – he needs to know he’s safe.”

Nodding, Steve positions them so he’s kneeling behind Bucky, his chest to Bucky’s back and Bucky’s legs splayed out in front of him. “Bucky, it’s me, Steve. I’m here, all right? You’re safe. I’m not going to hurt you. No one’s going to hurt you, ok?” He touches his hand to Bucky’s chest gently and splays out his fingers. “Remember before the war – you used to help me breathe through my asthma attacks – remember? We’d sit like this and you’d say, “breathe, Steve, match your breathing with mine’. Remember that? Well, I’m asking you now, Buck. Breathe, just like this.” He sucks in a deep breath, holds it for a second, then lets it go through his mouth. “Just like that, ok?”

He repeats the exercise over and over, until he feels Bucky relax against him, his voice falling silent. “Good, that’s real good,” he says, rubbing Bucky’s chest. “Keep going.” Bucky breathes in and out slowly, in a perfect imitation of Steve.

A minute passes, and then Bucky’s eyes slide open, blinking in the daylight. “Steve?” he chokes, and his arm reaches up again to press against Steve’s neck, fingers slightly cold from the cryo, but warming up fast.

Steve smiles at him softly. “Hey, you ok?”

“Uhh,” Bucky licks his dry lips. “What the hell happened?”

Steve looks up at Natasha; she’s staring at them with an unreadable expression on her face, her hand still clutching a pistol that she’d pulled from her belt.

“It’s ok,” Steve tells her. “Stand down.”

She nods, stowing the gun quickly.

He returns his gaze to Bucky, whose body is slowly melting against Steve. “You were kidnapped,” he explains, “we had to wake you up when they set the facility they were holding you in to self-destruct.” He frowns, remembering Bucky’s peaceful sleeping face. “I’m sorry. I know you didn’t want –”

But Bucky cuts him off with a shake of his head. “S’ok,” he says, exhaustion in his voice. “Thanks for savin’ me.”

Steve smiles tiredly, rubbing another circle into Bucky’s chest as he drifts off, head lolling on Steve’s shoulder.

Above them, Steve hears the sound of a chopper descending, and Natasha smiles at him, her eyes suddenly full of warmth. “He trusts you, you know,” she says.

“I don’t deserve it,” replies Steve, “but I know it.”

***

Later, Steve sits at Bucky’s bedside in T’Challa’s royal tower. The room is cast in a dusky light as the sun dips low behind the surrounding city’s tall buildings. Bucky is lying on a white bed, a drip supplying him with fluid intravenously.

Natasha slips into the room quietly and stands by the doorway, watching Bucky sleep. “How is he?” she asks.

“Physically, he’s fine,” Steve says, not taking his eyes from Bucky’s face. “But mentally – it’s hard to say.”

Natasha moves closer to Bucky’s bed. “I didn’t know,” she says.

Steve looks up, meeting her gaze. “What?” he asks.

“About you and him.”

“About –“ Steve stops, taken aback. “What about us?”

Natasha gives him a piercing look, one eyebrow raised. She motions to Bucky. “That man has been tortured, beaten, and forced to submit to the kind of brutality that would give Loki nightmares. He’s had his memory wiped countless times, and endured a lifetime of cruelty from everyone he has ever known. Yet he trusts you instinctively, without question.” She smiles softly. “That doesn’t come easy,” she says. “Take it from someone who knows.”

“I –“ Steve blinks, stunned. He looks down at Bucky and feels a surge of emotion.

“My advice?” continues Natasha as she strolls from the room. “Don’t wait, Steve. In my experience, good things never come to those who wait.” And with that she turns the corner and disappears down the hallway, leaving Steve alone again with Bucky, who stirs lightly, eyes blinking open.

He glances at Steve, who sits forward in his chair, a smile on his face. “Rise and shine,” he says, and Bucky huffs, scanning the room with a calculated expression.

“Where are we?” he asks, sitting up with some difficulty and resting his back against the wall.

“Wakanda. T’Challa’s tower. You’ve been out for four hours.”

Bucky looks surprised. His eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot, but he smiles wanly all the same. “You been here the whole time?”

Steve nods, swallowing something thick in his throat. “How do you feel?”

“Like a building fell on me,” Bucky replies. “S’that the Widow?”

“Yeah, Natasha came to see how you were.”

“She’s like me,” Bucky says offhandedly. “’Cept less fucked up.”

Steve chuckles. “I guess so.” He sobers up almost immediately though. “She said something to me,” he continues, ”about us – about you.” Bucky looks at him patiently and waits for him to go on. “She said that you trust me.”

“I do.” Bucky says it without any hesitation, without breaking eye contact with Steve.

“Ok.” Steve breathes in. “But – why?”

This time, Bucky looks at him incredulously, like he’s just said something incredibly stupid. “You really have to ask? Shit, Steve. You’re dumber than I remember.” He sighs, suddenly looking exhausted again. “They made me forget a lot of things, and lots of it is still missing. But I remember some things. Like Brooklyn in the snow – fucking freezing, that was.” He pauses, lost in some memory or other. “And I remember other things, too.”

Steve watches him curiously. “Like what?”

“Like –“ he licks his lips, still dry from being in cryo. “Those drawings you used to make – of me.”

“Oh.” This surprises Steve. “You, uh, were ever supposed to see those.”

Bucky grins weakly. “You were terrible at hiding your stuff. Anyway,” he adds, “I wanted to ask you about them but then I got drafted the next day and there was no time. Thought it was better if I let it be.” He shrugs. “Then Peggy Carter came along and she was a better fit for you. I had no business interferin’ with the good thing you had going with her.” He smiles again. “See? I remembered all that.”

“Yeah,” Steve smiles back, though it feels feeble. “Jesus, Buck, we’ve been stupid.” He looks at the floor, a little morose, a little guilty. “I wanted to tell you,” he says, “before you went back into cryo. But I couldn’t. You were so scared of your own head and it was selfish of me to want you to stay.”

The sheets on Bucky’s bed rustle, and Steve feels a warm hand curl around his wrist. He looks up to see Bucky leaning in. “I’m not going back under,” he says, determination in his eyes. “I’m gonna learn to fight it.”

Steve pulls his chair closer so he can reach his arms around Bucky’s back and pull him in close. “I’ll help you,” he says, “we all will.”

Bucky curls his arm against Steve’s chest and presses his face into Steve’s neck. “Yeah,” he breathes. “I know.”

***

They return to New York the next day, after Bucky gets discharged from the hospital. On the plane ride home Bucky sits in brooding silence, his body tense and still. He seems wary of Natasha, and she of him, though she does her best to treat him with warmth.

Steve sits next to Bucky, not touching him, for he isn’t sure if that’s what Bucky wants right now. Instead, he chats idly with Natasha about the other Avengers, pausing every so often to check on Bucky, to make sure he’s still with them.

Whenever he does this, Bucky raises an eyebrow as if to say _Really, Rogers?_ which makes Steve grin, more from relief than anything else.

He knows Bucky’s hurting; he’s got that resigned look in his eyes, that drawn expression on his face that means he’s thinking hard about all the things he’s done. Steve hopes that this was the right choice, hopes that Bucky will recover enough to work through his trauma.

On the ground Natasha offers to drive them home, and Steve accepts, following Bucky to her car and sliding into the back seat next to him.

Natasha takes them away from the airport and onto the road that leads to the city. More than once she glances at Steve in the rear-view mirror, meeting his eye with a steady gaze. A little unnerved, Steve’s eyes wander to Bucky, who’s slouched in the seat, his head tipped back against the headrest as he gazes outside the window.

Eventually his head droops as he falls asleep, and although Steve feels a wave of concern wash over him at Bucky’s exhaustion, he’s just as thankful that Bucky feels safe enough to sleep at this moment, in the company of Steve and Natasha.

They arrive at Franks Avenue late afternoon, and Steve guides Natasha to the right building. He says Bucky’s name to wake him up and he stirs quickly, snapping to attention just as they come to a halt. He looks over at Steve, a tiny furrow between his brows, but then he seems to remember where he is, and he relaxes minutely.

“We’re here,” says Steve, motioning for Bucky to get out of the car, which he does, glancing up at the low-rise building in which Steve has his apartment.

“Got this place when I first moved to New York,” Steve murmurs to Bucky, as Natasha busies herself with something in the car. “Brooklyn’s always home to me, y’know?”

Immediately, Steve realises this was the wrong thing to say. Bucky’s head twitches and a wounded look passes over his face. He swallows thickly and says, “yeah.”

Steve feels guilt wash through him and he wants to apologise, but Natasha appears suddenly, standing at Steve’s side “This is where I leave you, boys,” she says.

“Thanks for the ride, Nat,” Steve replies, pulling her into a hug. “And for – well, everything else,” he says quietly into her ear.

He feels her smile, and her warm breath tickles his neck as she says, “you take care of each other, ok?”

Steve squeezes her lightly once more, then lets her go. “See ya round,” he farewells as she waves goodbye to both of them and strides back to the car.

He turns back to Bucky and nods towards the doors. Together they make their way inside, Steve fumbling with the keys on the landing as Bucky takes in the surrounding building, no doubt cataloguing the various escape routes.

Inside, the air is slightly musty, and Steve throws open a window in the living room right away, letting the warm air filter through. “It’s a bit dusty,” he says to Bucky as he gathers up the pile of junk mail from the floor.

Bucky looks around curiously, taking in the few bits of furniture that Steve had managed to acquire. There’s a threadbare couch, a stained coffee table, one mahogany bookshelf, and a small square dining table with two seats that Steve had found at a flea market.

“I’ve seen worse,” Bucky counters. He shuffles over to the couch and sinks into it, sighing as he does so, and Steve moves to stand nearby, watching as Bucky crosses his arms over his chest and shuts his eyes, breathing slowly in and out through his mouth.

“You all right?” Steve asks.

Bucky hums, a frown creasing his forehead. He opens his eyes and looks at Steve. “I don’t know,” he says honestly, and Steve smiles.

Bucky grins lopsidedly in response.

“Do you want something to eat? I’ve probably got a can of baked beans or something I could rustle up…”

Bucky shakes his head and makes a disgusted face. “I’m good,” he says. “Think I’ll just sleep.”

“Ok.” Steve nods. “Do you want –“ he stops, not knowing what he was going to say anyway. He suddenly feels unsure of his footing. Their conversation the day before had been a revelation, but Steve finds he feel even less certain of himself around Bucky than he did previously.

He wants to touch Bucky, but he doesn’t know if Bucky is ready for that. He frowns at himself, frustrated and looks back at Bucky, whose eyes are watching him carefully. “Do you want a blanket?” Steve finishes lamely, though Bucky doesn’t look at all convinced.

“S’all right,” Bucky says quietly, his words already slightly slurred from sleepiness, and Steve doesn’t know if he’s saying no to a blanket, or telling Steve that what he’s feeling is ok. He gets him a blanket anyway, throwing it over him and pressing a firm hand to Bucky’s shoulder as he does so, though Bucky is already unconscious, his head tipped back against the couch.

***

Bucky sleeps all through the afternoon, and is still asleep by the time Steve turns in himself. Steve supposes that Bucky’s brain needs as much rest as it can get to repair the damage done by HYDRA, and that his recent stint in cryo had probably sapped some of the strength from his body.

Stretching out in his own bed, Steve lies awake listening for the sound of Bucky’s breathing, but it’s silent except for the occasional roar of a motorbike or bus on the road outside. Eventually Steve drifts off, the stress of the last few days catching up to him at last.

He wakes suddenly, his eyes snapping open as he listens intently for the sound that woke him. From his living room issues a breathless, pained moan, and the sound of harsh, ragged breathing. Steve leaps out of bed without thinking and rushes into the lounge where Bucky is contorted on the couch, his hand gripping the back of the sofa so hard that his knuckles are white, and his body bent double as he relives some especially painful memory. His face is tight with agony and he doesn’t wake, even when Steve calls his name.

Before he can second guess himself, Steve slides into the space behind Bucky and wraps his arms around Bucky’s chest, splaying his fingers just beneath his collar. Bucky makes a choked noise and jerks against Steve, who can now feel just how quickly Bucky is breathing.

Same as he did in Wakanda, Steve begins talking in hushed tones to Bucky, urging him to calm down and to match his breathing with Steve’s.

It takes longer this time, but eventually Bucky seems to come out of nightmare and he slumps against Steve, still breathing hard, but slowly now, with deliberation. “Steve,” he mutters, letting go of the sofa and curling his fingers around Steve’s hand instead. “S’that you?”

“Yeah,” Steve says gently, “it’s me. You’re safe.”

Bucky nods and relaxes a bit more. “Nightmare,” Bucky says bitterly.

Steve squeezes him lightly. “I kinda figured.”

“Get them all the time now. They’re so vivid. It’s hard to tell what’s real.”

“I’m real,” Steve assures him.

“Yeah.” Bucky smiles weakly. “I think I know that.”

“Is this ok?” Steve asks, in reference to their position.

Bucky hums, sinking yet further into Steve’s embrace, and tilting his head so it rests comfortably against Steve’s chest. “Yes,” he sighs. “Steve –“ he stops and his mouth curls into a frown.

“What is it, Buck?”

“I don’t know if I can do this. I’m not sure I can be normal.”

“No one’s asking you to be normal,” Steve says, rubbing a gentle circle into Bucky’s chest. “You’ve been through a lot. More than most. But what you do next is your choice.”

“My choice,” Bucky repeats. He squeezes Steve’s hand lightly. “Ok,” he says. “That helps, actually.”

Steve feels warm with relief. “Good.”

Bucky says nothing else; he settles down further into Steve’s arms and shuts his eyes, and Steve waits to hear his breathing even out before he closes his eyes too, focussing on the steady beat of Bucky’s heart beneath his fingers.

***

In the morning Bucky heads for the shower wordlessly, leaving Steve on the couch with a crick in his neck. He emerges an hour later with Steve’s towel around his waist, his bare chest and back scarred from endless lacerations; evidently not even the serum could heal such routinely-inflicted injuries.

Forcing back a wave of horror, Steve hands him a soft cotton tee and a pair of sweatpants. “You can wear these,” he says as Bucky takes them from him. “We’ll get you some other things to wear later.”

“Thanks,” Bucky takes the clothes and returns to the bathroom to change.

When he wanders into the kitchen a minute later, he looks more at ease, and Steve can’t help but smile at the sight of Bucky wearing his clothes. “You feeling better?” he asks, as Bucky leans over the bench, sniffing interestedly.

He nods. “Is that banana bread?” he asks, as Steve turns back to breakfast.

“Yep.” Steve pops a piece on a plate and hands it to Bucky, who takes a large, half-starved bite, chewing mechanically.

“’S good,” he says, taking another bite. “Mm.”

Steve nods, taking a piece for himself and sitting down at the table. Bucky joins him a moment later, two more pieces of banana bread already stacked on his plate.

“What happened to your friends?” Bucky asks suddenly.

Steve looks up from the newspaper he was reading and blinks. “Uh?” He must be frowning, because Bucky clarifies:

“After Siberia.”

Oh. “They were put in a prison. But I got ‘em out. Things were frosty for a while with Tony, but we’re not trying to kill each other anymore.” He tries to sound nonchalant, but Bucky looks nervous.

“Does he know –”

“That you’re out of cryo?” Steve finishes for him. “Not yet.”

Bucky nods, but his body tenses again and he looks down at his banana bread without enthusiasm. Steve reaches out his hand and touches Bucky’s knee gently. “Hey, it’s gonna be ok.” Bucky’s knee is warm beneath Steve’s sweatpants and Steve presses his palm there, meeting Bucky’s eye across the table. “Tony’s had a lot of time to think. I don’t think he blames you anymore.”

“That makes one of us,” says Bucky, so quietly Steve almost doesn’t hear him.

It’s no more or less than Steve expected, but the guilt etched on Bucky’s face makes his throat constrict. “It wasn’t you, Bucky. The only guilty people here are HYDRA,” he says fiercely.

Bucky smiles morosely. “Problem is, Steve, I don’t know who I am anymore. I’m not the Winter Soldier, but I’m not Bucky either.”

“You’re you.” Steve’s hand tightens its hold on Bucky’s knee. “It doesn’t matter what your name is, or who other people say you are. You are the person that you are, Buck, and that person belongs to you.”

Surprise flits across Bucky’s face. “But who am I to you?”

“You’re someone I love,” Steve says after a pause, “and I’ll take you however and whoever you are.”

“You know I’ll never be Bucky again. I’ll never be the person you remember.”

Steve smiles sadly. “I know, Buck. But there’s more of him in you than you think. You already remember a lot about your life before the war, right?”

Bucky seems to waver; he purses his lips, still frowning, then he turns those dark eyes back on Steve. “Do you love me, then?” He asks it without fanfare, with barely a trace of emotion. His eyes bore into Steve’s with a frightening intensity.

Ignoring his unfinished banana bread, Steve gets up from the table and kneels in front of Bucky, reaching up to curl his fingers around the back of Bucky’s neck. “Bucky,” he says, drawing their heads together so their lips are almost touching. All of a sudden he feels lost for words, but he thinks Bucky needs to hear this, needs to know for certain.

“Of course I love you,” he says. “You’re my best friend. And –“ he brings their lips together, pressing a firm kiss to Bucky’s mouth and sliding a hand into his hair when Bucky’s lips go pliant beneath his. Their mouths slide together and a thrill runs up Steve’s spine. Bucky’s arm twists into the fabric at the back of Steve’s tee and he makes a soft, breathy noise in the back of his throat.

When they break apart, Bucky’s eyes are wide, his lips red and slightly parted. He smiles weakly, loosening his hold on Steve’s shirt. “Why’d it take us so long to do that?” he asks, and Steve huffs out a laugh.

“Good question,” he says, stroking his hand down Bucky’s back and resting it on his waist.

After that, they leave the conversation for another day and Bucky returns to his banana bread, his shoulders a little more relaxed than before.

***

_One year later_

“Hey, Bucky, you wanna head down to the VA later? Sam needs some help setting up for an event.” Steve shuts the door to the apartment noisily behind him and wanders into the kitchen. The oven’s on, and there’s an array of baking ingredients spread over the bench, but Bucky’s standing still and silent, his eyes staring vacantly out of the far window.

“Bucky?” Steve slows his pace and makes sure he steps into Bucky’s line of sight so as not to startle him. “Hey, earth to Bucky.” He stops a few feet away, waiting.

After a minute, Bucky returns to himself, shaking his head dazedly. “Um,” he murmurs, looking down at the bowl of floury dough in front of him. “I was making walnut bread. But I forgot what to do after you knead it.” He frowns down at the lumpy brown mess. “I used to make this all the time. My ma taught me.”

“Yeah,” Steve approaches cautiously. “That’s all right,” he says, pressing his hand to Bucky’s back. “It’s an easy thing to forget. I think you’re supposed to let it rise now.”

Bucky doesn’t move for a moment, then he lifts his head and grins sheepishly at Steve. “Yeah, that’s it.” He covers the bowl with a tea towel and puts it on the windowsill in the sun. “Thanks.”

Moments like these are less frequent nowadays, but every once in a while Bucky has these quiet episodes, in which he seems to step out of this world and into another one. But he always comes back; he always remembers who he is.

“Hey.” Steve moves into Bucky’s space, catches him around the waist. “You good?”

Bucky nods, tilts his head so that Steve can kiss him. “What were you saying about Sam?” he asks as Steve lets him have his space. “Somethin’ on at the VA?”

“Yeah, you up for it?”

Bucky brushes some flour off his shirt and grins. “Sure.”

Sure, not everything’s perfect, Steve reflects; Bucky still has nightmares that leave him gasping for breath, and there are still patches of his memory missing that he may never recover. But he’s made incredible progress in just one year, and he and Steve have been able to cobble some sort of life together.

Smiling, the scent of walnuts in the air, Steve watches Bucky return the flour to the pantry.

Bucky’s not normal, and neither is Steve, but Steve knows it doesn’t matter. They’re together. They’re good.


End file.
